Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mindpalace
by Ace-Sherlock-Holmes
Summary: As John sorts through Sherlock's old things he comes across a business card for the infamous LACUNA facility and he realises the solution to not being able to move on. He needs the memory of the man removed from his brain, scourged from his memory, cut out like a tumor. W.I.P
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:**

After the fall John is certain that the memory of Sherlock will kill him slowly and painfully. Every corner, every spec of dust, every mark he came across filled him with unease, because that was all there was left of Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than dust floating away from John.

He doesn't know how to move on with his life. That is until his birthday arrives and Lestrade brings him over a box of Sherlock's old things. As he sorts through the stuff he comes across a business card for the infamous LACUNA facility - and he realises the solution to not being able to move on from Sherlock. He needs the memory of the man removed from his brain, scourged from his memory, cut out like a tumor.

What he doesn't realise is that somewhere in the depths of Serbia Sherlock is very much alive, fighting his way to get back to John. By the time that Sherlock does make it back to London, the John Watson that is there to greet him is a far colder, harder version with no recollection with his time with Sherlock whatsoever.

 **A/N:** So this was inspired by a post QuirkyGown shared with me on Tumblr. It's a sort of crossover between the BBC Sherlock verse and the film "Eternal Sunshine Of A The Spotless Mind" and will contain elements from both universes.

* * *

John didn't know how much more of this he could take. His obsession with Sherlock had been worrying enough when he'd been alive, but now he was gone...and the obsession was still there.

John used to always fuss over him, worrying when the man didn't eat or sleep enough, always patching up Sherlock's post case injuries, and rushing to Sherlock's side at the drop of a text.

His willingness to do anything for Sherlock had ruined any potential relationships, infuriating John to no end. No matter how much Sherlock had run John ragged though, underneath it all he hadn't really cared, because his flatmate had been able to offer him so much more than an ordinary relationship would. In many ways Sherlock Holmes had saved him, had given meaning to his life.

John hadn't known it back then, but Sherlock had become a drug; one that was necessary for both his mental and emotional health. Those were the days where he lived for the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through their veins, just the two of them against the rest of the world. When he was by Sherlock's side he felt alive, like the genius ignited something inside John, allowing him to feel so much bigger than he actually was.

It had taken John far too long to realise how co-dependent he'd become, and how life without Sherlock was unthinkable, and utterly un-doable. He'd forgotten about the little things that made up his day. Even the small, rare moments of peace that he shared with Sherlock each morning over breakfast had become a staple part of his life. Those moments were always like the calm before the storm, providing him with happiness, and was probably the closest John had ever come to achieving domestic bliss; reading the paper, sipping at his morning cuppa, Sherlock sat opposite him biting into his toast.

The silence would stretch out between them, but it hadn't been an awkward silence, but a natural one that settled around them like a comfort blanket. Occasionally their toes would brush together, and as they reached across the table their elbows would knock, their fingers dancing tantalizingly close to one another. It'd been like their bodies had been performing a strange sort of dance.

This hadn't been a normal way to act around a housemate, and it should have bothered John a bit more than it did, but it felt so right that he'd allowed those tender touches to continue.

In the months that came prior to the fall, to Sherlock's untimely death, the man had become more and more tactile. He would place his hand on John's shoulder and squeeze it, rub his hand down John's back if it decided it was going to play up, cool hands touching John's face whenever he did something that was clever. Some of the touches had been so feathery and affectionate that John came to question Sherlock's intentions after a while, and then those same questions fell upon himself, as he began to return several of the gestures.

When he realised that the Moriarty case was not going in the direction they wanted, it brought all of those feelings to the forefront of his mind. It's funny that you don't really start to think about these things until you realise what might be taken away from you. He didn't sleep much whilst the trial was taking place, too worried about Sherlock's safety, and too wound up by his thoughts and messy emotions.

He knew that he loved Sherlock, would do anything for him. Hell, he'd agreed to die by a poolside because he'd felt so loyal to the man. John would've instantly take a bullet if if meant keeping Sherlock out of harms way. But was he /in/ love with Sherlock? It wasn't that John hadn't had desirous thoughts about men in the past, but love had never been part of that, only attraction. It was strange to think Sherlock Holmes could be the first ever man that John really, truly loved. At the time, despite the hell that was taking place, John's heart had soared with happiness at his new revelation.

He'd wondered what Sherlock would say to him if he told him what he was feeling. He considered that Sherlock might already have known about the internal battle John had been facing, and either said nothing out of politeness, or simply because he was disinterested. On their first case together Sherlock had stated that he was married to his work, but time had progressed since then, and minds do change, don't they?

Their relationship had evolved in a rather backwards fashion. First they became flatmates, then colleagues, then friends, and John would go as far as to say Sherlock had become the best friend he'd ever had. Their evolving connection held so many possibilities in front of them at arms length, and John had found himself on many a night thinking "what if" or "could they?" Those thoughts would keep him wide awake, taunting him, and when he at last did find sleep his dreams consisted solely of Sherlock.

It had become painfully obvious to John that his heart was yearning for Sherlock. He didn't want to go on dates anymore, instead solely investing in Sherlock. It already felt like they were in a sort of relationship. They did everything that lovers do, bar the romance and the sex. But that didn't mean that their relationship felt like it was lacking anything. In fact it was quite the opposite, as John had never felt so completed in his life. The slippery slide into accidentally forming a less than platonic bond with Sherlock was an easy act in itself. The line that stood between them was thin and barely existed, and all John had to do was step over it.

He wanted to tell Sherlock about all of the lingering thoughts that had been occupying his mind. That's when he found himself handcuffed in a darkened room with the man, his heart thundering in his chest, as the situation they had found themselves in was so tense, he'd wanted to tell him. He'd needed to somehow comfort Sherlock, reach out to him, let him know that he was loved by John and that John would always protect him for that reason alone.

In that moment, before Kitty showed up, John reached out to Sherlock. It was awkward and a bit of a fumble in the dark, but somehow John managed to pull the younger man into a firm hug. Their chests pressed up against each other, heaving with a mixture of adrenaline and uncertainty, and their hands found each other.

"John?"

"Mmm. Yeah, Sherlock?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you a hug, you pillock. I figured we could both do with one after that police chase."

John hadn't know it back then but this was going to be the last ever embrace he'd have with Sherlock. If he'd know that he would never have let him go. He would have spent more time focusing on how warm and solid Sherlock felt against him, how right it felt where John's fingers slid in between the gaps in Sherlock's hands, and he would have counted each and every one of Sherlock's heartbeats.

He can still hear Sherlock in that memory sometimes. The memory is repeated on days where John is overcome with grief.

"John," Sherlock's voice shook, and sounded un-Sherlock like. "This has to end at some point."

"End? Sherlock…what?"

John's grip had tightened on Sherlock so firmly he caused the man to gasp aloud. Fear gripped him tight in his chest, because Sherlock was never meant to be like this. He wasn't meant to sound so small, so defeated, and his voice was always meant to remain steady and rational. Right then Sherlock sounded neither of those things. He sounded scared, voice small like a young child, and that made John feel physically sick.

Because if Mr emotional range of a teaspoon was frightened of what was happening, John was certain that the whole world was about to come crashing around their ears. John liked being right about most things, because it made him seem clever, but this time he wished he had gotten in wrong. If only that had been the case.

"Us, John." Sherlock told him, not backing out of the hug, even though John was squeezing a bit too tight. "I'm talking about us. That's what this is all about."

That one simple word sped John's pulse up to an ungodly speed. It filled his head until it felt like his mind was clogged with cotton wool. With each gush of blood that beat against his eardrums he could hear the echo of the word. Us. Sherlock said that there was an us, but had he meant it the way that John had come to hope?

John had no time at all to comprehend Sherlock's words, as the sound of keys rattling permeated the air. Sherlock sprung back from John, sliding awkwardly on the sofa, as though they hadn't been hugging at all. Then Kitty walked through the door, and the whole "Moriarty is an actor" escapade happened. This was the moment, John is certain, that marked the catalyst that would lead Sherlock to his death.

Most of all, however, he blamed himself for his best friend's suicide. If only he had stayed by Sherlock's side, if only he hadn't spat "you machine" at him before leaving him alone and vulnerable, and if only he had gotten to the scene a moment sooner to stop him from jumping.

John was certain that the guilt was the thing that would kill him. With each moment that ticked by, each pointless day, his thoughts would drift back to watching Sherlock jump. He berated himself for acting so cruel to Sherlock, for being the exact opposite of what Sherlock had needed. He should have known that Mrs Hudson being shot was a trick, should have seen through the mask Sherlock put up in his final moments, and he should have been supportive of his friend. Instead of all the words of love and affection that had been building inside him for months now, he had turned around and said two vile words in anger, and it had killed Sherlock.

John killed Sherlock. He killed him. He sent him to his death. He is the reason the world is a darker, bleaker place. He should have stopped it, stepped in. Hell, he should have been the one to take Moriarty's fall, not Sherlock.

The guilt he felt when the…incident…first happened, was growing inside him. The emotion that weighed on him so heavily started to multiply and filled each and every one of his cells, like an aggressive form of cancer.

John was certain that given time, just like cancer, it would bring death to him. That is if time itself didn't kill him beforehand. Now that there was no Sherlock, no cases, and no excitement in his life his days became empty and meaningless. He went to the clinic and took on a few hours, but he found no joy in being a doctor anymore, and found more and more of his time was spent staring at the clock hooked just above his GP office door.

 _Tick. Tock. Tick_.

The hands moved at a torturous speed. And as his eyes followed those movements, his mind would drift to thoughts of Sherlock. Not good thoughts. Not the happy memories of their time together, but the death and the fall, the bad memories and the pain outweighing anything that had come prior to that. The most prominent memory that stood out in his mind, the one that weighed on his soul the most, was the last conversation that John had had with Sherlock on his mobile phone.

* * *

"John."

"Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."

"No. I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask. Please."

John hadn't questioned it. He was used to Sherlock asking things of him, and John willingly listened. This time he should have stuck to his his guns, ignored the small "please" that the detective had given him, and gone up to the rooftop to stop Moriarty himself. Every time he thinks back, he berates himself for listening to Sherlock. Just this once John should have followed his own instincts. Perhaps then he would have been able to stop Sherlock from jumping. He might have put his own life in danger, but he didn't care. If John had the opportunity to do a do-over then he would put himself in Sherlock's place every time.

"Stop there."

"Sherlock?"

"Okay. Look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh god."

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this?"

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"Wh-what?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock…"

His stomach had twisted itself into a tight knot. The palm that was pressed against the mobile phone became slick with sweat, and his heart had beat so fast it made him feel physically nauseous. This was wrong. Those words were definitely said by Sherlock, but they weren't /his/ words. He was certain that Moriarty was behind the scenes of the call, pulling the strings, forcing Sherlock to say and do things like a puppet. It was sickening. Sherlock should never have sounded that lost and unsure of himself.

He'd wanted to run from the spot he'd been standing on, even then, but Sherlock had asked him to stay. He stupidly listened. He'd been a fool. Perhaps if he'd acted upon his fears the moment he knew something was terribly wrong then he could have prevented anything further coming from the words "I'm a fake"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly…in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met…the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"No. All right, stop it now."

John didn't believe it for a moment. He'd lived with Sherlock, he'd shared an intimate life with him. Sherlock, the man who barely had any concept of personal space, wouldn't have been able to lie to John for so long. Their lives had become intertwined, and John had witnessed Sherlock's genius first hand, had watched Sherlock solve puzzles that even bamboozled Scotland Yard. He would never bring himself to believe that Sherlock had been a fake.

To him Sherlock's brilliance would never fade. And perhaps that's why what happened, following Sherlock admitting he wasn't that clever, hurt so much. It was because Sherlock fell to his death genuinely thinking he wasn't brilliant. In normal circumstances John would have exclaimed that Sherlock was "amazing" and the detective would glow with pride. But John hadn't had time to compliment Sherlock , and the last real thing he'd said before the phone call had probably caused Sherlock to think he was less than brilliant. It hurt to think Sherlock died thinking so lowly of himself, but hurt even more that John had only added fuel to the fire with his "you machine" remark.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"All right."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do What?"

"This phone call -it's, er…it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't."

John had seen good men die in horrific ways, but until this point he'd never witnessed a suicide first hand. Had someone shot Sherlock then John would have been able to possibly save him, had he been wounded he could have gotten his head wrapped around the logic of the death, but watching Sherlock fall - and choose life over death - was another matter entirely. It made no logical sense that such a brilliant soul chose to die, took his own life into his hands, and ended his life in such a messy and horrifying way.

Sherlock spread his arms wide and tilted forwards. There was a fractional moment of silence as his body became a blur of flailing limbs, coat billowing out behind him, curls whipping in the gush of air. The scream of his best friends' name died in his throat, and his legs felt like dead weight below him, as he watched Sherlock collide with the ground.

He couldn't bring himself to believe what he'd witnessed. He had to make sure, so he pushed forwards, surging towards the spot where Sherlock's body had connected with. It was all a bit of a blur - the world moving at a chaotic speed - so when the bike unexpectedly hit him he was out of action for a good few moments.

Then like a man on a mission he'd scrambled up and over to the small crowd of paramedics and medical staff. They were circling Sherlock like bloody vultures, making it almost impossible to get through, but when at last he did, his knees collapsed beneath him.

"Please…he's my friend…let me through." He reached across, trying to get his fingers to find a purchase on the man's pulse point. He managed to brush the skin lightly with his fingertips. When his fingers connected with nothing, no pulse, no life, it was like his world came crashing down around him.

As the turned him over, John caught a glimpse of the face, and his heart had shattered inside its cage. It's a image that will always haunt him. Battered, bloody, barely recognisable. But god, the eyes, those bloody eyes, had killed him. They were just as beautiful as John remembered them being, but instead of the spark that usually flickered in them, that tiny flame of brilliance had been extinguished.

"Jesus no…oh god no."

In his dreams those eyes ask only one question. The question eats him up inside each and every day. The eyes ask "why?"

Why did Sherlock have to die? It was pointless. Stupid. It should never have happened. But it did, and John can't forget it. Each time he closes his eyes he sees his dead friend, his very- almost sort of love. Whenever he makes an attempt at moving on he finds himself remembering what he is moving on from. The pain was starting to become unbearable. If John didn't do something about it soon, then he was certain that it was going to kill him.

It wouldn't be a quick death, either. John was certain that it would be a slow, painful one. Sherlock Holmes still had a tight grip on him and he was taking John down to the grave with him.


	2. Chapter 2

John jolted upwards in bed, a strangled gasp catching in his throat. For a moment the room around him span. He grappled with the sheets below him, trying to find something that would help anchor him. At first he was disorientated by the room he'd woken up in. It took him a few agonizing moments to realize that he was not lying in his bed in 221B, but was actually laid out in his sisters spare bedroom.

It had killed him going to Harry for refuge, but after Sherlock's death he'd run out of options, as money had worn thin without the cases and he'd found it harder to work. It hadn't been fair on Mrs Hudson to carry on staying there in his room when he could barely meet the rent. Besides, after a while, staying in that empty flat on his own had almost driven him insane. The flat had felt too empty, too quiet, too clean. There was no Sherlock playing his violin, no experiments cluttering up the kitchen table, no excitement.

Every corner, every spec of dust, every mark he came across had filled him with unease, because that was all there was left of Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than dust floating away from John. It had become almost like John had been living with a ghost.

He sometimes forgot that Sherlock wasn't with him anymore and he would go about his days as normal, pouring two cups of tea out in the morning, or plating up two portions of takeaway in the evening. At one point he'd even caught himself talking to Billy the skull on the mantelpiece. It was at that point that alarm bells began to ring in John's head. He knew that chasing a ghost was unhealthy and that if he didn't get out something inside him was bound to snap. So he got out, and had been bunking in his sisters spare room ever since.

When he first arrived at her doorstep he swore to her that he'd look for his own place soon. Those plans flew out the window quickly, as his life became an uphill battle, and he couldn't summon the energy to look for a new place.

He buried his head in the sand, spending most of his days moping about, feeling miserable and exhausted with life. In the evenings when his sister decided to get rat arsed? Well, John didn't lecture her on it as he had done in past years. Instead, he found himself joining her more often than not. Getting lost in a bottle and passing out completely pissed seemed the only way to get rid of his nightmares. It numbed the pain, pushed it deep down inside.

That morning as John woke up hungover, mouth dry and head pounding, his brain informed him that it was a day of significance. He wracked his aching brain for an answer. In the end his sister answered the question for him, as she knocked lightly on the door and poked her head inside.

Harry was a few minutes older than John, but the years of alcohol abuse had aged her a bit, so they were often mistaken for older/younger siblings, rather than twins. The one unmistakable feature that John recognized in himself was her sad, kind eyes. Harry, like him, had a big heart and often loved too fast and too hard. She'd been hurt in the past by lovers, and before that their parents blatant homophobia.

Still, John knew deep down she wasn't a bad person, and he loved her a lot. He just worried about her, and had resented her when the drinking started. But now Sherlock…and the fall…John was more than aware of what hurt could do to a person. He knew what sort of coping mechanisms people put up just to push through each waking hour.

He smiled at his sister softly and sat up in bed. He noted that it was only 8.00 am, and that it was a rare event for both of them to be up prior to noon. "You're up early."

"Couldn't miss our birthday, could I Hammy?"

John groaned inwardly in response to the childhood nickname Harry liked to call him. He didn't have much time to complain about it, however, as what she said dawned on him. Oh. Oh god. It was his birthday…well…their birthday. How could he have forgotten? He supposed that his mind had been in such a state he must have lost track of time. His sister must have seen the pure look of horrifying realization, because she sighed knowingly and came to sit on the bed beside him.

"You forgot, didn't you?" She asked as she slung an arm around him, resting her head against his shoulder. Her breath smelt like toothpaste and stale alcohol and his nose wrinkled in response. He dreaded to think how bad his own breath was.

"Yeah," John admitted feebly, feeling a bit of an idiot to be honest. "I'm sorry Harry. I've been such a mess lately. I can't…I can't think straight."

"I'm the same. Since Clara…" Harry trailed off, going very tense beside John. "But I'll just shut up. It's worse for you, ain't it?"

"My lover didn't walk out on me." John's words sounded weak, even to him.

"No. You were almost lovers." Harry said, confirming all of the thoughts John had been struggling with prior to Sherlock's death. "Which is worse in a way, because you're always going to wonder what if."

"Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" John snapped bitterly. "He died in the worst way. I watched…I stood by…as he killed himself. I did nothing, Harry. I don't get to question the what ifs, because it's my fault."

If only John had done something, if only he had spoken up about his feelings for Sherlock, if only… but he didn't, so thinking about the what ifs of his relationship with Sherlock were nothing more than a selfish indulgence.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, John. It's bad enough there's one alcoholic in the family, hmm?"

"There's no point in lecturing me, Harry." John huffed, feeling annoyed, and still slightly groggy from just waking up. "I'm a doctor, for Christ sake. If I wanted to stop, I bloody would."

"Are you going to go back to Ella? You should talk about this, you know."

"I'm sick of talking, Harry. It's all anyone expects me to do ever since…"

Harry squeezed his shoulder knowingly, nodding with sympathy. "Alright. No talking. Got it. But can we at least go out and celebrate our birthday?"

John didn't want to celebrate his birthday. He would rather roll up in his duvet cover and force himself back to sleep until the late evening, where he would take to the bottle again; maybe red wine tonight seeing as it's their birthday. Then he would fall asleep again as drunk as a dog with no thoughts of Sherlock, the overwhelming feeling of loneliness faded around the edges. However, as he took in Harry's hopeful expression, he felt the urge to be her protective big brother. God, she drove him insane, but he didn't like disappointing her all the same.

"Alright," he said, his resolve crumbling. "We'll go out somewhere. You choose where we go."

Harry pressed a familial kiss to John's head, causing a small smile to break out across his face, but it quickly slipped away. It didn't matter where Harry chose to take them to celebrate. This was London and no place was safe from the memory of Sherlock Holmes. It was like he'd left bits and pieces of him all across the great expanse of a city. He was in the red brickwork, on every street, in every restaurant, cafe and eatery. Hell, when Sherlock had been alive it had felt like he'd known every hot spot for food, as well as the owners.

As soon as Harry closed the door and left him to get ready, John rolled out of a bed with a groan. He went to his wardrobe to get some clothes. If he was going to go out it best be in clothes that didn't reek of his alcohol and shame. He paused as his gaze fell upon his oatmeal woolen jumper and his lips twitched in a semblance of a smile. Sherlock used to call John's taste in jumpers ugly and hideous, but for some reason the detective had been fond of that particular one. Perhaps it was because it was the jumper John had worn on their first case together?

As he continued to rifle through his belongings his fingers caressed a foreign material. He caught a flash of purple at the back of his wardrobe. He scrambled to get it and pulled it out, heart pounding in his chest painfully fast. It was one of Sherlock's button ups, the purple one, John's favorite if he's being honest. How the hell did it get there?

John shrugged to himself. Perhaps he'd accidentally packed some of Sherlock's stuff with his own? It was easily done. Before Sherlock…died…he and John had practically been living on top of one another. It hadn't been unusual to find John's stuff in Sherlock's assigned areas, or vice-versa. As he stared at the dark purple material he felt a mixture of happy and sad. Trust Sherlock to make him feel two contrasting emotions all at once. The shirt felt like it was calling to him. Before he even acknowledged making the decision, he'd slipped it on and started buttoning it up.

The material was softer than he imagined it would be, caressing his skin. It was far too large for him, however, meant for a taller and leaner body than his own. He decided to hide this fact by slipping his oatmeal jumper over the top. He didn't want his sister, or anyone else for that matter, to tease him for wearing one of Sherlock's famous bespoke shirts.

As he looked in his reflection in the bedroom mirror, he stroked the purple collar sticking out over the top, sucking in a deep painful breath. His face was haggard, hair unkempt and overgrown, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark bags. Today was going to be a long, tiresome day, and it was going to take every ounce of energy he had left just to leave his sisters house. But somehow the button up shirt he was now wearing beneath his jumper made things that much more bearable.

It felt as though a tiny part of Sherlock still existed, wrapping him up in warmth, taking care of him, telling him that everything was going to be alright. For a brief moment he could pretend that it was him and Sherlock again, against the rest of the world.

"Right then." John said, muscles tensing, hand forming a clenched fist. "Into battle."

* * *

Harry opted for the worst place possible. It made his stomach twist and churn just thinking about it. He'd very almost not come because of where she'd chosen, but then she threatened to pour his share of the alcohol away. His body, rather than his brain, had protested against that. Every ache and pain he could feel urged him to lose himself in the evil liquid. Despite his protests about being able to stop at any time, he was weaker than he thought, and he crumbled beneath his sisters threat.

Grumbling and feeling more miserable than ever, hating himself for his piss weak resolve, John was dragged by his sister to Angelo's. It wasn't that he suddenly had a dislike for Italian food. He had in fact missed the large, warm portions Angelo always gave him. But this had sort of been his and Sherlock's place. When the adrenaline of their latest case died down to a dull buzz, and they were both exhausted and in need of a hearty meal, they always ended up there. This wasn't just the place where they'd eaten in post case bliss though. This was the exact spot where he'd almost asked Sherlock out.

It had been during their first case together, before John had even had a chance to move into 221B properly, but he'd been so enthralled and captured by Sherlock, that he'd wanted to cease the opportunity. Except he'd made a huge cock up out of it, and hadn't been clear enough. Even when Sherlock did pick up on the slight undertones of what John had been asking, it felt as though his offer had rather flown over the man's head.

John sighed and rubbed his palms against his eyeballs, hoping the pressure and the pain would quell the memory rising up inside him. But alas it did nothing and John found himself trapped in the memory.

* * *

"So you don't have a boyfriend then?" John had asked out of curiosity, really. At least that's what he would tell people if they ever asked. Though in truth he'd found Sherlock just the right mixture of mysterious and intrigue, with his cheekbones and his upturned collar, and those eyes that swirled with indecipherable colors.

"No." The answer Sherlock gave him was immediate, flippant, as though it was the younger man's response to most things asked of him.

"Fine. Okay. So, unattached, like me." John looked down at the menu, rapidly running out of things to say. "Good."

He remembered the way Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, eyes narrowed. It appeared as though he was replaying what John had initially asked him inside his mind. He looked caught off guard, uneasy. At the time John had just figured he'd overstepped the mark, but later on he had discovered that Sherlock just wasn't used to people showing an interest. Most people, most sane people anyway, were put off by his personality.

"John, you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any kind of …"

"No. No." John had felt the need to backtrack, his natural defenses rising up. He hadn't wanted to mess up his chance of a new start. Sherlock had saved him from himself and he couldn't afford to go back to the bleak prospects he'd had before Mike had introduced them to each other. "I wasn't asking you out. No."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, evaluating, calculating. Eventually, he nodded. John often finds himself wondering what went through Sherlock's mind in that moment. Sometimes he berates himself for not asking Sherlock more openly.

"I'm just saying, it's all fine. Whatever ... shakes your …" He flailed about for the right word, his mind offering him blanks, going into to fully blown panic mode. "... boat. I'm gonna shut up now."

"I think that's for the best."

Sherlock continued to watch the street behind him through the mirror whilst John looked at the menu again, not really registering what he was reading. His focus was still solely on Sherlock, pulse raging in his ears, palms going slick with nerves. He tried to remain silent, bite down anything more he had to say on the matter, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"So …" He cleared his throat, tongue flicking out over his lips involuntarily. "You…you don't…do anything?"

This question seemed to only exasperate the consulting detective. When he next spoke, his words were spelled out slowly, as though he were trying to drum the message through John's thick skull.

"Everything else is transport."

The conversation had abruptly ended there, never to picked up again. John had assumed that perhaps Sherlock was Asexual, and really wasn't interested in relationships. But perhaps it had gone deeper than all that.

After that meal in Angelo's John had witnessed many people interacting with Sherlock. He'd seen the way people acted cruelly towards Sherlock, or unnecessarily insulted him. Perhaps he had faced so much hurt and hatred from people that he just assumed he wasn't good enough for a relationship?

John wished that he could have shown him differently. Had Sherlock allowed it, John would have reached across the table and taken his hand, and never let go. He would have told him that he was good enough, brilliant enough, to be loved and adored by someone. But that isn't how things went and these days when John reflects on how that meal could have gone the "what if" questions leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

As he broke out of his reverie, he realized that he and Harry had been seated. He hadn't even registered it, his body working on auto pilot. Come to think of it, the table was the very one he and Sherlock had sat at on their first case. He felt rather nauseous as Angelo approached him; no candle this time around, nor the enthusiasm that he'd once greeted John with.

"I see, you dine with your sister tonight." Angelo said rather solemnly. "It is great surprise to see you, John. We'd begun to think you would not come back."

"No," John said, swallowing down a painful lump that suddenly lodged itself in his throat. "Me neither, to be honest. But it's our birthday today so…"

"Ah, you're celebrating! Why didn't you say so?"

"I wouldn't take any notice." Harry snorted. "He practically forgot what today was."

"I've been a little out of it since…"

"Of course. Your Sherlock was a good boy. He did not deserve to leave this world like that." Angelo's facial expression dropped in understanding. "Don't worry about paying tonight. It's on the house."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly…I mean…he's gone now so you don't really need to…"

"Nonsense." Angelo gesticulated with his hands, waving John's worries away. " Sherlock Holmes was family to us. I know how important you were to him, John. He would not want you to pay tonight."

"Yeah, OK." John agreed with a heavy sigh, heart heavy in his chest. He knew there was no point in arguing. If Angelo had an opinion, he almost always stuck to his guns, and it was a very hard thing to change his mind. John could have sworn that throughout the time he and Sherlock came to Angelo's for dinner the owner was still fully convinced that they'd been in a relationship.

In all honesty John was too exhausted to fight back, so he just caved in, nodding. Besides, the money worries he already had were a concern, and his bank card would probably thank him.

"You see Hammy." Harry placed a hand over his own, as she sipped at a glass of house wine. "Things will work out just fine."

"Yeah." John agreed numbly, the word meaningless, more for Harry's benefit than his own.

His gaze fell to the window, watching the outside world move on by at snail pace. There were the usual locals, taxi drivers, tourists, but something felt off. That's when John saw it and his stomach threatened to lurch. He stood suddenly, face pale and contorted with pain. For the briefest of moments he'd spotted a ghost-like face, with high up cheekbones, and intelligent eyes watching him.

"Hammy?" Harry looked up at him, concern lacing her voice. "What's wrong?"

"Can't you see him?" John said, agitated, pointing a finger towards the window.

"See who?" Harry asked as she looked where he was pointing.

"Sherlock! Can you see him? He's right there. He's playing drunk again, just like on our first case." John watched as a tall, lean man with dark curls staggered along the street. It had to be Sherlock - it had to be him!

"Hammy," Harry's voice is calm, soft, kind. Too kind. It's full of pity that John desperately doesn't need. "Sherlock Holmes died. He isn't out there. That's just some drunkard. It's a Friday night. Hardly a rare sight."

John felt sick to his stomach, his heart lurching in his chest. "No." He snapped. "You're wrong. It's him. He survived, somehow. I don't know how but he…"

The supposedly drunk man turned to look in his direction once more, piercing gaze fixating on John, cold and calculating like Sherlock used to get when he was deducing at a crime scene. The look pierced through John's soul and he felt himself sway.

He should have been able to tell what was about to happen. He was a doctor, for goodness sake. All the signs were there but he ignored them, pushed them down, his focus solely on the man and those unmistakable was a gush of blood in his ears, a pounding of thoughts in his head, and sudden weakness in his muscles. His vision became blurred around the edges, everything fading out of existence, so that the only thing that he was aware of were himself and the man outside.

Then the world gave a sudden lurch around him, like someone pulled a rug from beneath his feet. For the first time in John Watson's life, he fainted.


End file.
